


Again

by pastomatoes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: It just kind of happened, M/M, Poor Arthur, UKUS galore, angst???, drunk Alfred, honestly the feels, idk why this was written tbh, it hurts, it's too early for this shit, mention of daddy kink but it's not the whole thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:28:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4404443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastomatoes/pseuds/pastomatoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're going in circles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Again

"Why are you here, Alfred?" _Why are you here again, you beautiful idiot?_

"I still want you." A voice, breathless. It's small, but it rings out like a resounding liberty bell in the silence, loudly, too loudly. The air has solidified and Alfred finds himself incapable of movement. He's sitting on his hands, as if he's afraid he won't be able to control himself from reaching out, touching…

"You're drunk, aren't you?" _Of course you are, you never want me when you're sober, do you?_

Alfred's breath catches in his throat and he looks away, a flinching movement: That's all the answer Arthur needs. The Brit inhales sharply, deeply, feels his lungs inflate until they're brushing painfully against his ribcage. He stares blankly at a spot in the ceiling where a steady stream of raindrops are plopping through, remembers that he hasn't called anyone to come fix that damn leak yet.

Alfred releases a choked sob mangled with a hiccup. "I… I still want you."

Quiet. The crickets seise chirping outside the window pane, where dew is quickly collecting, shimmering there, and the moonlight falls in wavy brush strokes across the floorboards. Time is standing still, or maybe that's just Arthur's heart, static and oh so heavy in his tired old chest.

"Please," Alfred whispers. He sounds empty. 

Arthur feels his chest constrict, prohibiting his own breathing, which had been steady until Alfred had showed up, wrecked, at his front door. _"It's pouring rain, you sod!"_ Arthur had shouted before grabbing the American's limp arm and wrenching him into his home. 

Home: warm, smells like tea, tastes like Arthur, seems like the perfect place to promise "always…"

Alfred's feet hang off the side of the bed. His head drops, beaten as his lids clench shut. A drop of water escapes the ocean in his eyes, and he turns away, defeated, final.

"Please."

Arthur's chest rises in ragged shudders. He wishes Alfred would let him move on already, wishes the younger man would stop showing up, sobbing violently in the ungodly hours of dawn, begging to be held and coddled, pleading for forgiveness and then pretending, in the company of friends, that he is completely and utterly fine.

Because Arthur, on the other hand, is not fine.

He isn't fine, no, because when Alfred _does_ show up, sobbing violently in the ungodly hours of dawn, begging to be held and coddled, pleading for forgiveness… Arthur does just that. He takes Alfred in, pulls him flush against his chest, never wanting to let go, feels Alfred's heart pick up its pace with his mere touch, smells the fresh rain in Alfred's wet hair, smells the barley, the sweat, the gunpowder, the alcohol, still buzzing in Alfred's veins, thrumming distantly, making him fuzzy- 

And Arthur reminds himself it's the alcohol, just the alcohol, that makes Alfred come back.

But still, Arthur gives in, every. Single. Time. He can never stop his fingertips from pushing gentle caresses through his boy's wheat-colored hair, can never stop his lips from pressing feverishly against his boy's golden, sun-kissed skin, can never stop his hands from wanting to grab, to take, to seize, to own, even if just for this one time, _one last time_ -

Arthur wants to give him up. Really, he does. He wants to push Alfred away when he shows up, sobbing, begging, pleading. He wants to move on and forget but… But then Alfred says it:

"I love you," he says. 

His voice tumbles and trembles, but _he says it._ It's a lie, Arthur knows it's a lie, it's a lie, it's a lie. 

But… 

"I love you, Arthur. I love you, I love you, I love you."

But _Alfred._

Arthur starts to cry as he walks towards him, _again, just like always_ , and leans down to kiss him. The Brit's lips are gentle against Alfred's, loving, caring, slow… But the American presses roughly into them, wanting more, wanting to take everything, because nothing Arthur gives is ever enough for him-

"I want all of you," Alfred breathes against Arthur's abandoned mouth when they pull away for air. 

"You have me," Arthur pants, and his heart shatters, _never enough_. "You have all of me."

Alfred doesn't say it, but Arthur knows he's thinking it: _More._

Alfred must want to watch him burn. Arthur doesn't mind the fire. 

The American struggles with Arthur's shirt, muttering profanities and cursing the clothing's existence until Arthur finally gives in and assists him, peeling the shirt over his head with ease before turning his attention to Alfred's top. 

The moment Alfred is shirtless, Arthur crawls on top of him, pushing him back against the bed, all the while planting painfully soft kisses on every last one of Alfred's freckles. He tries to memorize the pattern of his skin, figures there must be a freckle for every time he has wanted this man, his boy… 

Arthur's hand slides between Alfred's thighs, earning a gasp of "Oh god, oh please!" that he immediately gives in to. He fumbles with the button and zipper of Alfred's jeans, not receiving any help from the younger man until the pants are wiggled all the way to Alfred's ankles and all Alfred has to do it kick lousily to make them flop to the ground. 

Arthur reaches across Alfred to the nightstand, fumbling for the lube under Alfred's watchful, hazy eyes, that nostalgic shade of blue that reminds Arthur of the seas he used to own. The Englishman finds the bottle and, with a sigh of relief, pops the cap open, pouring generously into his hand before taking Alfred's half-hard desire into his grip, twisting and tugging. Alfred's back arches and his fingers grip the sheets, pulling himself down, closer to Arthur, closer, never enough- 

Alfred, in the throes of ecstasy, hadn't noticed that Arthur's other fingers had slipped down to work him open. _One, two_ … Alfred whimpers as they curl against the right spot, both blinding and paralyzing him for a moment. Arthur adds another finger, _three_ , and Alfred moans, his hands scrambling to get a grip on the headboard behind him. 

"Please, Daddy," Alfred murmurs. 

Arthur's hands- both of them- stop. "Alfred…" 

"Daddy, I need you."

"Alfred, I'm so sorry, this is… Christ, this is fucked up-" 

"Is that why you're rock hard? You wanna be Daddy again?" Alfred murmurs, hushed, soothingly, almost, and Jesus, Arthur knows that Alfred wouldn't be this compliant and submissive if it weren't for his drunken stupor, knows that this fact, the way Alfred is presenting himself so willingly to his father-figure, is what makes his cock stir. Shame wells up in his belly, thrashing and wild and… 

"You like it," Alfred states. "You want to be Daddy again, you want me to be your colony, at your beck and call, ready to serve you. You liked when I was helpless, didn't you? You liked that I needed you all the time... I still need you. God, Daddy, _I need you_ -"

Arthur pins Alfred's hands down by both sides of his head. "Don't," he mutters. "Don't make this hurt any more than it already does."

Quiet again, just the sound of them breathing and the steady _pitter-patter_ as rain falls heavily against the roof above them and that one leak that's falling into a bucket nearby, _that damn leak Arthur still hasn't fixed_ … 

"Do you still love me?" Alfred whispers. 

If it was quiet before, it's silent now. Not because Arthur doesn't know the answer, but because he _does_. He bows his head against Alfred's chest in a noiseless prayer, breathing raggedly, _don't make me say it_.

"Do you still love me?" Alfred repeats, voice low, and his hands escape Arthur's grip because _Arthur can never control him_ and he starts playing with Arthur's hair, slender fingers pushing gently against compliant strands and Arthur's heart stutters and stops and...

"Yes," he says, jaw tightening, resolve crumbling. "I still love you. I never stopped, Alfred, I never stopped-"

Alfred's fingers stop playing with Arthur's hair, curling beneath his chin and forcing him to look up.

"I love you, too," he says- slurs, really. Arthur wants to keep those words, that voice saying those words, in a jar. 

Wishful thinking. 

"Need you inside me," Alfred tells him. "Take me, Arthur, fuck me-"

Arthur wants to make love, though, wants Alfred to feel the long nights he had spent crying and pacing, wants him to feel how many times he had picked up the phone only to set it back down, wants him to feel the obsession and the ache and the helplessness… 

So he presses inside slowly, pacing himself, and while it's difficult, the way it wipes the breath out of Alfred is completely worth the patience it takes. 

It's painfully familiar; Arthur knows exactly what he's doing, knows how to make Alfred squirm with anticipation. When he brushes against Alfred's prostate, the American goes rigid, clutching at Arthur's shoulders as goosebumps erupt across his arms in waves.

Arthur's face heats up and his heart skips and he gasps because the very thing making him feel alive is killing him inside: Alfred beneath him, breathless and flushed, whispering Arthur's name with every exhale, his eyes wanting to take in the sight of everything but closing tightly because they have to anchor him against the unreal amount of bliss he's being encased in, have to keep him tied to this world. 

Arthur breaths into Alfred's neck, lets his heat encompass him. He moves inside his young lover, a steady rocking back and forth that has Alfred already clambering for purchase. He leans in, breath ghosting over Alfred's neck as Alfred laces his fingers through Arthur's hair.

"Say it again," Arthur begs. "Say it again, tell me you love me-"

"I love you."

The Brit closes his eyes for the moment and sighs, hot air pushing against Alfred's skin, and he brings a hand to brush the hair from Alfred's sticky face, pecking his forehead. He looks at Alfred- vulnerable, raw, babbling Alfred- with a racing heart, sick with love, and for a moment they're functioning properly… 

But Alfred still isn't sated. Moments later his hips are bucking, searching for more friction, just wanting to forget, just wanting to come. "Harder," he sobs. " _Fuck me_ , Arthur."

Arthur feels his chest go cold. He stops moving completely. 

Silence. _Again with the silence_ , and Arthur shatters. 

"You want me to fuck you?" he demands through tears. "Huh? You want me to fuck you, you insensitive prat?"

"Arthur-" 

"Turn around!" Arthur shouts, voice shaking, because he can't look at Alfred like this, not when Alfred reminds him of a home that's been burnt to the ground. _"Turn around!"_

Gone. Arthur, his lips, the intimacy.

Arthur turns Alfred over, onto his stomach, and his hips are roughly pulled up and back. "I'll fuck you like you want, yeah?" Arthur growls despairingly. "I'll fuck you senseless, because that's what you are, Alfred, you're _senseless_ -" And he shoves back in, feeling like a fool for thinking he would ever get a chance to make love with Alfred again. 

Alfred's fingers curl in the bedsheets at his sides, letting out quick "ah-ah-ah's" as Arthur thrusts, and it's just in, out, in, out, nothing more, _Why do we keep doing this?_

"You make me feel so good; fuck, how do you make me feel so good?"

"It's the alcohol, Alfred. It's just the alcohol," Arthur replies bitterly. He's suddenly broken out in a cold sweat, perspiration collecting at his temples and he tries to be mindless, tries to focus on coming and not on the knot in his stomach that says _this should be something more_ -

Arthur feels ridiculous for crying at a moment like this. He splays his fingers across Alfred's back, watches them spread and conform to Al's spine whenever the American arches. He kisses Alfred's shoulder since the man won't even turn his head to kiss Arthur's lips and Arthur feels homesick for baby blue eyes and slow worshipping.

Nights like these, Arthur takes Alfred apart between the sheets. Nimble fingers work wonders against waiting skin, curling into parts that make Alfred gasp and arch and unravel. Pressing, pinching, pulling, _please_ \- Alfred comes against his stomach, Arthur comes inside Alfred- And when they resurface, Arthur whispers broken pleas of _Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me…_

Alfred never does. 

Weeks later, though, with the persuasion of a couple beers and a lot of aching, he'll come back. 

And the cycle will begin again.


End file.
